


Ineffable Drabbles

by lineslines



Series: Ineffable Drabbles [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drabbles, Fluff, M/M, Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 12,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lineslines/pseuds/lineslines
Summary: A collection of Good Omens / Ineffable Husbands Drabbles.





	1. drunken confessions

**Author's Note:**

> They're drunk, and together, and pining fools.

„You don’t know what love feels like, do you?“

„Offffcourse! I’m an angel, my dear, I love… everything!“ Aziraphale slurred, waving his wineglass. „I love the world, I love humans, I love brother snail, brother worm… brother snake…“

He looked at the demon, smiling broadly at his last words. Had he not known better, he thought that, for just a second, he saw something like pain behind Crowley‘s impenetrable sunglasses.

Pain? Aziraphale wondered. Wondered, above all, if the demon could truly, fully feel love. The same kind of love he felt. He hoped so. It might go against his very nature, but then again, Crowley went up against anything that wasn’t  _him_. He was self-sufficient like that.

„Angel…have I ever mentioned that you’re dumb? Like, super smart dumb. You don’t get it! I mean… love! Not your angelic all encompassing love, I mean special love.“

„Special love?“ Aziraphale swallowed.

He could feel Crowley‘s eyes burning into him.

„Yeah. Love you only feel for a special person. Feels different, y‘know.“

„Yeah.“ A pause. „I know.“  _Do you?_

„So? You don’t know, do you? How it feels to be in love.“ Crowley was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a glass in the other. He put the bottle to his lips.

„Of course I do!“ Aziraphale almost cried, putting his glass down on the table a little too hard, miracling away a few drops of wine that almost spilled on the open pages of a book. „I’m in love with  _you_ , aren’t I??“

Crowley froze so fast the wine almost flowed right back out of his mouth. „You  _what_?! You—you—“

„Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.“ Aziraphale fumbled, trying to comprehend his own words. „Well. I mean. Of course I love you.“

„Of course you love me. Of course he loves me. Of. Course.“ He stared at the angel, incredulous. „’I don’t even like you.’ ‘We’re hereditary enemies.’ ‘Of course I love you.’  _Wh-at_???”

“Well I’m sorry,” the angel said pointedly. “For offending you. It must be horrible for a demon to be loved by an angel.”

“Horrible??” At this point, Crowley was entirely at a loss for words, a weak echo of his usual eloquence. “Angel, you cannot be serious.”

“Well I am! I love you, and I wish you could feel what I feel for—“

“I  _do_.”

“What?”

“I love you, idiot!”

“But… but why haven’t you…”

“I thought it was obvious! I thought you, uh, well. You’re an angel.”

“I am.”

“I’m a demon.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve said it yourself!”

“Well I am  _not_  saying it  _anymore_!” Aziraphale stood suddenly, determination in his eyes. “Not like I  _meant_  it, anyways. I’m sobering up. And then I’m going to kiss you. It can’t be that hard. I’ve seen movies.”

“He’s seen movies,” the demon gasped, unable at this point to fathom another clear thought. He had just enough presence of mind to sober up slightly. Aziraphale was coming towards him. To kiss him.

And he did.

And it was good.


	2. a (first) kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one there’s no specific place-setting because honestly who needs that when they finally get to s m o o c h? exactly. it is set after the not end of the world though.

“We really are on our side now, aren’t we?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying! Glad you caught up.” Crowley moved around the angel in a half circle, like a planet orbiting the sun, never at rest and always, relentlessly, being pulled towards an unreachable center. He’d been doing it for half an eternity. He stopped, though, when he came round the front and found a peculiar expression on Aziraphale’s face. It wasn’t directed at him, at first, but it seemed to be  _about_  him nonetheless.

Aziraphale was looking at him with a glint of enthusiastic madness in his eyes that Crowley couldn’t quite place. He liked it though, this expression.

“We can do what we want.”

“That’s right.” Crowley raised an inquisitive brow. “Penny for y–”

He didn’t need to procure a penny because suddenly Aziraphale’s thoughts became quite clear to him–if his hands on Crowley’s cheeks and the euphoria in his eyes were anything to go by. Hope lit up inside the demon with the force of a flaming comet, and he was ready to be knocked out of orbit. (Had been ready, God knew, for longer than he wanted to admit.) His gaze dropped from Aziraphale’s determined eyes and landed a little lower.

And then the angel kissed him: a short, simple, but happy kiss, and he drew back beaming. Crowley stood open-mouthed, staring, and sucked in a gasp of air. He thought he’d been prepared. For a change, he seemed the bigger fool. He licked his lips, and almost shuddered when he tasted the angel there.

When Aziraphale slowly retracted his hands from his face and a hint of panic began to creep into his eyes, Crowley finally regained his composure. He pursed his lips. “Well.” A (truly diabolical) grin spread across his face. “That was a new… thing.”

“Well I… I… I felt it was the  _right_  thing to do. For me. Personally.” Aziraphale tried to look self-confident, testing out his newfound freedom. He clasped his hands across his belly, fidgeting.

“The right thing?” His grin spread. “Fraternizing with the enemy?”

“Fraternizing?!”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Crowley mimicked, and Aziraphale exhaled slowly, knitting his brows.

“Crowley, it’s been over 200 years!”

“Never over it,” the other said dramatically.

“Well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Er. I wasn’t… wrong, was I?”

“Can you even  _be_  wrong, angel?”

“Oh, gee, thank you, I was really worr–” He caught Crowley’s expression. “Ah. Right. Irony. Never getting used to that. A completely overrated literary device, if you ask me.”

“Baby steps.” Crowley was still grinning. “You wanna know what I think?” he said after a moment, “I think that for once, we’re not cancelling each other out. The opposite, really. I could get used to that.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, one of the real big ones that lit up his whole face. Crowley’s face remained immobile, save for that little twitch around the corner of his mouth that Aziraphale had learned to interpret as anything ranging from mild amusement to ineffable joy.

Right now, it was leaning towards the latter.

///

“Say, Crowley. Have you ever thought of leaving that dreadful flat of yours? What do you think of the South Downs?”


	3. Gravitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are like two adjacent parallel lines: always together but never touching. Except when they do. They’re small moments, usually: quick and fleeting. The brush of a thumb against a finger, a hand lingering on a shoulder, an arm brushing against an arm. They don’t touch. But the straight lines bend, change course, become two circles. They overlap. Every now and again, their bodies intersect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accept my humble offering of Aziraphale and Crowley-shaped planets. Or suns. You see, I'm not actually that good with knowing about space. But I do love it. And them.

They are like two adjacent parallel lines: always together but never touching.

Except when they do. 

They’re small moments, usually: quick and fleeting. The brush of a thumb against a finger, a hand lingering on a shoulder, an arm brushing against an arm. Accidental. (Except they’re not.) 

They don’t touch. But the straight lines bend, change course, become two circles. They overlap. Every now and again, their bodies intersect.

They orbit, and they gravitate, and they  _want_. 

And after the End Of The World That Wasn’t, they begin to draw closer. There are more touches: casual and soft and sometimes unsure, but above all deliberate. They both notice; they both initiate. Perhaps the inevitable collision is imminent, at long last.

Crowley hopes it is. (Aziraphale does, too.)

It is a dark and stormy night (because you can’t ever rely on the weather, not even if you’re an occult/ethereal being) and an angel and a demon, huddled under a single umbrella, are hurrying towards a bookshop. 

They enter puffing and blowing and dripping wet, but have not yet found the time to miracle the wetness away. They are too preoccupied with a rather urgent conversation of vast importance. 

“Big round hot ball, the sun!” Crowley states decidedly, “But it has no ears! Why does it have no ears?!”

“Because it’s not,” Aziraphale, exasperated, turns towards him, “it’s not  _alive_.”

“Right,” Crowley mutters under his breath, “because you need to be alive to have ears.”

They continue muttering as they peel out of their coats. Aziraphale wants to put the umbrella away; Crowley wants to head to the back room: there’s the collision course. If they are genuinely drunk or if it’s a somewhat deliberate accident, only they know. No point in probing. Important is this:

They change course, and they collide. It is not violent; it isn’t even fast. 

It’s a  _bump_ , a little flailing, almost laughter–but then they look into each other’s eyes and realize they are Close. Aziraphale swallows, Crowley opens his mouth. Neither finds it in them to break the gaze, not anymore.  

Clumsily (neither of them have thought it neccessary to miracle the alcohol out of their systems–conveniently–though neither really is that drunk anymore to begin with, a fact which they also, conveniently, choose not to acknowledge), Crowley brings a hand up and cups the angel’s cheek, smiling sheepishly. 

And Aziraphale, surrendering, closes his eyes, and openly relishes the touch. He is almost glowing. For a perfect moment, they remain suspended. But even slow movement is movement, and sooner or later the moment ends. 

Crowley’s smile widens, Aziraphale’s face warm under his hand. “You have ears.” His index finger rests on the shell of the angel’s ear, curling gently down towards the earlobe. 

Aziraphale opens his eyes, and again they stare a second too long. He clears his throat. “I assume that means I cannot be the sun, then.”

_Oh you are,_  Crowley wants to say,  _look at you, all glowing. (And so far away.*)_ But instead he reluctantly draws back and says, a little restrained, a little quiet, “Gonna be Heaven, getting home in this weather.” 

*(He is wrong about that.)

Even through his sunglasses, Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s gaze, which asks the unspoken question hiding in his eyes. The hope. And there is no hesitation when he speaks next. 

“You can stay at my place, if you like,” Aziraphale says. (And  _smiles_.)

When two large bodies collide in space, it can take them hundreds of millions of years to merge. Take the neutron stars, for example: the old bodies of dead suns, becoming one. 

To Crowley and Aziraphale, six thousand years on earth felt like enough of an eternity. Never mind the billions of years before Earth, before Life, before Each Other. They had been there for the Big one. But that was a ghost of a memory, nothing compared to the Bang they had felt, deep down, when they had first met. Their collision is far from over, even now, but that’s fine.

They have all the time in the universe. 


	4. Let's Not Fall In Love: Let's Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His powers are meant to heal, to bless, to bring light to darkness–but what happens if they touch a thing that opposes them? No matter how good: too much of any thing can become destructive. And Heaven knows all about destruction. When light meets dark, do the shadows stand a chance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have discovered I have a thing for holiness when it comes to those two.

_Holy, holy–_

His holiness is a thing that burns. His body is hallowed ground, his spirit is consecrated. How can one touch so much Light and not burn?

Crowley so badly wants to find out. 

Here’s the thing: Aziraphale does, too. But the angel is scared–not of his love for a demon, not anymore, but of what it could do to  _him_.  

Everytime they get close ( _closer_ ), close enough to touch, Aziraphale feels his holy powers boiling. There is heat beneath his skin, and longing, and it scares him so very much. His powers are meant to heal, to bless, to bring light to darkness–but what happens if they touch a thing that opposes them? No matter how good: too much of any thing can become destructive. And Heaven knows all about destruction. 

When light meets dark, do the shadows stand a chance? 

Can you love a thing so much you might destroy it?

Perhaps it is better not to find out. (Oh, but is it, really?)

Oh, they can touch, they have touched many times. Fingers grazing, shoulders brushing, hands resting firmly on the other’s body–casual, and quick, and often without thought. They are comfortable. 

But if there is love in the touching–if they don’t touch but Touch, with purpose, with feeling, when there is Desire in the brush of fingertips against warm skin, when Aziraphale can feel the Love inside him bursting at the seams–what then?

He might be about to find out.

Because Crowley, he’s standing there in front of him and the desire between them is sparking. It has sparked and risen and  _risen_ , over those last weeks that were the first weeks of the rest of their lives. 

They have both felt it, and Crowley knows, but what he doesn’t know is why the angel is still holding out. So the demon becomes greedy. He leans in, because he  _knows_. But he can’t go all the way alone. So he goes still, his lips so very close to Aziraphale’s ( _too close, too close_ ), his body leaning into him but in suspension. It is unbearable.

He is waiting for him. (Still, after all this time, he is waiting.)

Aziraphale wants so badly to meet him. As he stands there almost desperate, radiating so much heat and longing–that he  _knows_ is being returned–Aziraphale realizes this: He could be the tree to provide the shade. 

He could spread his wings and offer protection from consecration, be the thin layer between the fire within him and the fire without. 

He is more than his Holiness. 

(That is their salvation.)

Carefully, Aziraphale moves forward (there is almost no space to move forward  _in_ , they are already so dangerously close), and feels how Crowley goes still, and holds his breath. Surprise turns to (hesitant) delight in his eyes.

Aziraphale lifts his hand, and touches his cheek. There is no fire, only warm coals. Crowley’s eyes drop to his lips. 

Holy: worthy of complete devotion. 

The snake lifts its deep yellow eyes from the angel’s lips, and as Aziraphale stares into them he sees that they are full of desire.  _A sin_. Well, then let it be a sin. He feels it, too. He has tasted the forbidden fruit, and he is ready to taste it again. Because he can also see reverence there, and devotion. 

He can find nothing sinful in love. Or in Knowing.  

He leans in. (They are safe, under the shade of a tree that he planted.)

When Crowley’s lips touch his, by God, Aziraphale feels holy. 


	5. lazy morning kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up'

Aziraphale had not slept. This did not mean, however, that he had not spent the last hours in bed, immersed in Hemingway’s  _The Sun Also Rises_ , with Crowley curled up by his side. 

And now, as light crept hesitantly into the room, as if nervously begging the occult beings for entrance, Crowley unfurled by his side, and stretched his spindly panicle limbs. He made no other sign as to having awakened. 

Aziraphale smiled, carefully laying his book onto the covers (not flipped open: he never did, and he might smite you if ever he caught you, so make sure to have a bookmark on you always) and bending down sideways. 

Crowley’s face was still, and peaceful.  _You were an angel once._  Never could Aziraphale see it more than in those mornings together, with the early light of day gently illuminating his ginger hair. 

Softly, he pressed a kiss to his demon’s forehead.

He moved back, one hand already returned to his book, but did not get far before he was being pulled back down.

“You’re awake,” Aziraphale managed to mumble against Crowley’s lips inbetween lazy kisses, “Good morning.”

“Mornin’” Crowley finally answered, his hands reluctantly releasing the angel. “Sleep any?”

Aziraphale motioned towards his book. “Oh, no. Still. I should get up, and…” He made a face. “Open the bookshop.”

“You don’t have to, you know. You could… stay here.”

“But it’s 10 o’clock!”

“We are not bound by timely constraints, angel.”

“Well, you might not be, but I do choose to assimi–”

“Assssimilate? Angel, you make me laugh. When did you buy your waist coat, again?”

“I don’t see how that…” Aziraphale began, but never finished his sentence: perhaps because he had accepted the irrefutability of Crowley’s argument, or perhaps because the demon’s long fingers had wound around his wrist, tugging gently. His voice barely rose above a whisper when he conceded, weakly, “In 1919.”

“So… you could leave it off for a little while longer? To keep it in good condition, of course.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that.


	6. a hoarse whisper, "kiss me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You what?”
> 
> “Well, it’s been a few years since I’ve eaten, and I’m craving…” His book all but forgotten, Aziraphale leans in closer, propping his arms onto his knees, as if Crowley were the exciting part in a movie. “I’m craving olives.”
> 
> “Olives…” Aziraphale faintly echoes, and hunger creeps onto his face. Except, it’s not the food-kind. He looks at Crowley like he is the snack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley gets hungry and Aziraphale likes it. (This is sfw.)

“Aziraphale, I’m feeling peckish.”

The angel’s head snaps up from his book.

“You  _what_?”

“Well, it’s been a few years since I’ve eaten, and I’m craving…” His book all but forgotten, Aziraphale leans in closer, propping his arms onto his knees, as if Crowley were the exciting part in a movie. “I’m craving olives.”

“Olives…” Aziraphale faintly echoes, and hunger creeps onto his face. Except, it’s not the food-kind. He looks at Crowley like  _he_  is the snack.

„Why, what are we waiting for, then!“ Aziraphale,  _delighted_ , is on his feet so fast that Crowley wonders if a miracle was at play. „So, olives? What kind of olives would you like? I mean, do you want a dish? Do you want to go to a restaurant? Or get some from a shop? See, there’s this little Greek supermarket, I think I told you about it, they have some delightful olives, soaked in olive oil and garlic and stuffed with this delicious“—with flushed cheeks, he looks at Crowley, who has moved to stand in front of him—“delicious….filling.“

Crowley’s hand settles soothingly on his arm. And he can’t help but notice: Aziraphale looks flustered. If he didn’t know any better…

No, no, it can’t be: it has to be the food.

Aziraphale clears his throat. „Well, shall we go?“

And he marches towards the hatrack by the door, pulling off his coat and putting it on like he were on a mission. Crowley supposes he is.

The demon follows, lazily. And then, just to put the angel to the test, he says: „Olives, y‘know. They’re so rich and salty. God, love that taste. Sure, there will never be any as good as in 700BC, but still… just to pop a few into my mouth, sometimes, and taste that savoury, full-mouthed tang…“

Crowley comes to a halt behind the angel. One corner of his mouth is quirked upward. And sure enough:

Aziraphale whirls around.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, hoarsely, pressing his body up against the demon’s with hunger in his eyes.

Crowley’s eyebrows rise, but—well, who is he to object? He’s always loved to indulge his angel.

It’s a kiss like a three course meal, crescendos falling and rising with every dish, sweet and savoury and filling. When they pull apart, Crowley licks his lips.

“Angel, does it—does it turn you on when I  _eat_?”

Out of breath, Aziraphale adjusts his collar. “Let’s go,” he merely says. “I am  _awfully_  hungry.”

“So… dessert at home?” Crowley asks, his grin unmistakably suggestive (even to an angel).

He expects a reprimand, a  _tut_ , maybe a gasp.

“Why not two desserts?” Aziraphale asks, and lets Crowley (speechless) follow him out the door.


	7. Epilogue To A Love Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They often went for walks, lately. Walks that took them through much-trodden village streets and familiar little alleys and along footpaths that had not been worn when they had arrived here, but were worn now, and the children who had helped create them no longer had time to play; they were so busy growing up. Walks that took them down to the beach and across meadows, and away. 
> 
> Life was good, here in the South Downs, but life was good elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's based on a poem by T.S. Eliot, and was inspired by a series of GO poem illustrations by @qrdrws on tumblr.

_We shall not cease from exploration_  
_And the end of all our exploring_  
 _Will be to arrive where we started_  
 _And know the place for the first time_

 

They often went for walks, lately. Walks that took them through much-trodden village streets and familiar little alleys and along footpaths that had not been worn when they had arrived here, but were worn now, and the children who had helped create them no longer had time to play; they were so busy growing up. Walks that took them down to the beach and across meadows, and away. 

Life was good, here in the South Downs, but life was good elsewhere.

People remarked, sometimes, how resilient they were against time and how it became them, and they smiled and walked away, and the people would forget they had noticed anything. It was only reality, after all. Still, they felt it was time to move on–not for pretenses, but for themselves. They had not talked about it, but they knew each other well enough without words. They had been nice years, years sitting side by side by the fireplace and years marvelling at hermit crabs down by the shore.

Almost touching, but never quite. And throughout these years, the ache in Aziraphale had grown and expanded, the ache that had become more unbearable every single day after The End Of The World that had not been the end of the world. Ever since The Possibility had become so very possible. Oh, he had  _known_ he loved Crowley long before, and he had loved him even longer still (so much longer), but he had been resigned, in a beautiful, bittersweet way, to forever love him like the moon loves the earth: in waves and phases. Several times, in the last years, he had almost let the flood overpower the tide, had almost reached out to bridge that narrow, fragile gap between them. Almost. He had not yet dared.

They were walking towards an orchard: a tall, angular man and a soft, round one, the world behind and apples before them. Aziraphale’s eyes darted up to the the sky, for a brief moment, then lingered on Crowley, who returned his gaze.

“So, how much longer?”

“I don’t know.”

Aziraphale was not sure about the nature of his question, but perhaps, he thought, Crowley wasn’t sure either. The answer, however, was true regardless.

They arrived at a brittle, overgrown gate, belonging to a wooden, dilapidated fence, which surrounded the orchard. They walked through it.

 

_Through the unknown, unremembered gate_   
_When the last of earth left to discover_   
_Is that which was the beginning;_

 

“Apple?”

Crowley held out an apple, red and shiny, and his eyes were shiny too. (He’d gotten used to slipping his sunglasses into his pockets, when they were alone.) Aziraphale regarded those eyes, and then the apple. He took it. Then he reached up to pluck his own, a paler one, and handed it to the demon. With a grin, Crowley bit into his apple, and Aziraphale smiled, wrinkles around his eyes, before following suit. They were free, like that. It had been easy to get used to it. It had been a new beginning, but in the end, it hadn’t been too different from the First. Not in a bad way.  

Somewhere, in that orchard, they could hear the laughter of children, who were sitting on tree branches and biting into their fresh bounty and having no other care in the world. Not too far off; Aziraphale knew that if he turned around, he’d be able to make out their silhouettes between the trees. Alas, he did not. 

“Crowley,” he started, hesitant. Something had been on his mind. Well, everything had been on his mind, that was his nature, but this particular thought had turned to a worry he almost did not dare voice into a question. “Where will you go, after… ?” He motioned around him. After this. After this little life; one of so many lives they had lived.  _After us?_

Crowley stopped. Everything about him stopped, and he stared, unblinking, into Aziraphale’s eyes. “Where…?” Crowley took a step towards him, forgetting about the apple in his hand so much that it vanished right out of existence. “Where will  _I_  go?”

Helpless, Aziraphale held his gaze. This was what they did, was it not? Go their separate ways, which somehow, sooner or later, but always without fail, ended up being their shared ways–before forking once again. An eternal ebb and flow, threading and unthreading. Waves, and phases. 

“I– Crowley.”

But they had never been together like this. It had been new. Aziraphale couldn’t deny it, and, more importantly, he didn’t want it to end. Well–he didn’t particularly mind it ending, as long as they would begin again together. That was what he truly wanted. He licked his lips. But could he? God knew, he’d always been a coward.

 _But not when it mattered._  And this mattered.

It had taken him a little while to come around. What were a few years against eternity? These last years they had spent together had passed in the blink of an eye, but for a while they had felt infinite. For so long, it had been enough to touch  _almost_. He wanted to hold on, this time. And Crowley was close enough to hold on to. He just had to reach out.

“Will we– I mean, we could– maybe, well, we–”

“Angel, for Heaven’s sake.” Crowley said. He said nothing more.

And the river broke the dam, and the water spilled into the sea, and drowned everything else.

 

_At the source of the longest river_   
_The voice of the hidden waterfall_   
_And the children in the apple tree_   
_Not known, because not looked for_   
_But heard, half heard, in the stillness_   
_Between two waves of the sea._

 

Drowning does not happen fast. Slowly, ever so slowly, they bridged the gap and went under. Slowly, they moved closer. They didn’t notice the children, curious, and they forgot about the trees and the apples: they were no longer a temptation. They had been tempted by something else. They closed the gap. 

_Quick now, here, now, always–_   
_A condition of complete simplicity_   
_(Costing not less than everything)_

When their lips touched, it was sweet. It tasted of apple: of knowledge of eternity, of the passing of time, of the true nature of all things. It was simple. Simpler than Right or Wrong, than Now and Always. It was Right, Now.

And She saw that it was Good.

It was love.

_And all shall be well and_   
_All manner of thing shall be well_   
_When the tongues of flame are in-folded_   
_Into the crowned knot of fire_   
_And the fire and the rose are one._


	8. a distracting kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "How about a combo of suffragette england and 'distracting kiss'?"

_London, February 1st 1907_  

In the shadows of Queen Street, just out of reach of the light of a little gas lamp–newly installed just last week ( _blessed be the Court of the Common Council_ , Crowley thinks,  _granting us cheap lights but no rights_ )–a woman is at work. 

Her long green dress sways as she pastes and sticks posters to the wall–the same poster, over and over again. Her movements are determined, efficient.

Behind her, a figure appears. 

Crowley distractedly snaps his fingers, enough incentive for the last patrols to turn a blind eye and continue walking. This time, however, his powers fail him. 

“Dear, I do support the cause, but is this really neccessary?”

Crowley stops, girating towards Aziraphale on the pointy ends of his heels. “Isss it really neccessary?”

“Well, I mean,–”

“Five thousand, no almost  _six thousand_ years of civilisation, and still they cannot even get a word in? Still no one’s listening? I’ve seen them, angel, throughout the centuries, and so have you. I’ve  _been_ them, and let me ask you: Is it really that wrong to ask for justice? Do you think them any less equal?”

“No, of course not! It’s just, uh, we cannot condone illegal activity or, or violence, and, well, there have to be  _other_ ways…”

“So are you citing the politicians now,” Crowley asks dryly, and watches guilt flash across the angel’s face. “Look at the poster, angel. What’s so bad about a call to demonstration? We’re not calling for murder, for Heaven’s sake. This is legal.”

“I suppose… But we both know the WSPU adops militant tactics and encourages the breaking of the law! Hell, Crowley, you have been to prison. I know all about it.”

“Do you, now.” Crowley’s eyes narrow.  “Well, maybe the law  _sucks_.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps, nervously tugging at the fly of his fine tartan suit.  “Do choose your words–”

“Deeds, not words!” Crowley hisses, taking a step closer towards the angel. Towards the light of the gas lamp. His black hat casts a shadow across his face.

Aziraphale swallows. Behind his shades Crowley’s eyes are ablaze, and their fire touches the angel. “I must confess, dear, that I do not consider myself to be best informed… I mean, I have– I was preoccupied.”

Crowley opens his mouth to answer, but his words remain forever unknown as they are interrupted by voices, just around the corner, and footsteps that are not so much approaching as they are already there. 

And Crowley seizes his collar, whispers “Oh, my dear!” against his mouth, and seals his lips with his own. Aziraphale’s lips are dry but soft, and more importantly, they  _respond_ –at first hesitantly, but then the angel leans against him and cups the back of his head, and his entire posture softens. 

The footsteps are long gone when they part. 

They look at each other, a heartbeat too long, and both lick their lips. They notice, clear their throats. Look anywhere but at each other.

“Twas neccessary,” Crowley offers hastily, the words cutting through the silence like a jagged knife. “Cover, and all.”

“Yes, yes that makes sense,” Aziraphale says after a moment, and smiles.

_No, it really doesn’t_ , Crowley thinks. Then,  _What am I doing here?_

“Well, I should get going,” he says, motioning towards the entire length of the wall he has decorated with posters of  _Great Demonstration Before The Opening Of Parliament In Support Of Women’s Suffrage, United Procession Of Women On Saturday, February 9th_. His lips are pressed thin. “But we should get lunch, someday soon, if I’m not in prison and you’re not too  _preoccupied_.”

If he notices the stab, the underlying mockery, Aziraphale doesn’t show it. “Oh, that would be lovely. We could talk about more pleasant things.” The angel smiles, looking somewhat relieved, though not enough to hide the underlying tension in the air. He seems to be looking for something else to say. “I do love your dress, dear. It suits you.”

“You’re such a  _man_ , sometimes,” Crowley says, and the irony–as it always tends to–passes straight over Aziraphale’s head.

The angel looks confused. And pensive. 

“Well, good night, angel.” Crowley tips his hat, does a mock little curtsy, and turns to leave. 

“Crowley please, wait.” Aziraphale’s words stop him in his tracks, suddenly so raw with emotion, and guilt too. “I… would like for you to tell me more about it all, dear. I really do. You… you are right, I do think. I should get the full picture. Will you let me?”

Crowley falters, turns. (Softens.) “Hyde Park, on the 9th. Will you be there?”

Aziraphale straightens his shoulders, and as the light illuminates him from behind, Crowley thinks that maybe there is hope, after all.

Change is always possible. 

“Yes. Yes, I do think I will.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short short drabble.

„Crowley… we shouldn’t…“

„Angel, it’s just us.“ Crowley smiles, a crooked, reassuring smile that makes Aziraphale’s heart beat faster. „It’s alright.“

Crowley leans across the gear shift, nipping gently at the angel’s lips. They part for him with a sigh. The air in the Bentley is thick, like you could cut through it, and the windows are starting to fog.

A safe little haven, sealed off from the world.

It’s just the two of them.

And Aziraphale crumbles, kissing the demon back with fervour, hands curling into ginger hair, hair that’s grown longer since the Almost End Of The World, hair that Aziraphale could get lost in.

But then the angel breaks the kiss, anxiously glancing out the car window. „What if someone—“ His voice is a thin whisper, straining for breath. His eyes lock with Crowley’s, like he’s about to drown in them. One last resistance, one last desperate breath before going under: „I’m sorry, are you sure you—?“

Crowley surges forward, catching the words before they can leave the angel‘s mouth. There is slight exasperation in the way he kisses him, a sort of annoyed fondness that the corners of his mouth, tugging upwards, give away.

„ _Yes_ , angel, I  _can_  park here.“

„But the sign says—“

A snap of demonic fingers.

„What sign?“

„Oh… oh, right.“

(It’s just the two of them. On a busy London street.)


	10. kenopsia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Kenopsia, goodbye kiss, “Please. No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kenopsia: the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet

There’s something about places that are supposed to be filled with life: when they aren’t, they feel wrong. They feel out of place, out of time, as if an integral part of them has been lost.

Like a cheap carbon copy, or a scaffold, or a ghost made of memories that is longing to fill the empty spaces of itself.

Aziraphale would never have thought that his beloved bookstore would some day feel like this.

Well, perhaps he had: he was no stranger to transience.

He hadn’t thought it would happen so soon. (It would always be too soon.)  _Can you ever get used to the fleetingness of life? Can you ever truly let go the things you love most in this world?_

After all this time, Aziraphale didn’t have an answer.

“Ready, angel?”

_I don’t know_. “I suppose I am.” He said it, but he did not move.

In the bookstore, it was quiet. Outside, life was going on: life signs of a busy Thursday afternoon, voices drifting inside through the shutters as they passed by, fleeting. Aziraphale tried to print images into his mind. Everything was as it always had been, and he wanted to remember it all. The desk, the shelves, the books. Oh, the books. So many of them. So many old friends.

So many he had known (and loved, and lost). Some, he had inspired. Others, he had never known at all (but how he would have liked to).

Not even an angel’s life experience was unlimited: he was bound to one body, one place at a time. He had to go through time the same way as anybody else, though perhaps he understood it in a way that had taught him to tweak it, now and then. Time, and place.

“Aziraphale, I know— but we should leave, now.” Crowley’s voice was soft, careful.

“Please. No. Just a little while longer…”

The experience of time, as one of his old friends had told him, was relative. To Aziraphale, it had been mere moments that he had been standing amidst his collection, touching spines and dusting off long forgotten copies. A clock would tell you: several hours had passed.

To Crowley, who had arrived ten minutes ago, every second began to feel like an hour. Not because he wanted to leave, necessarily, but because he could feel Aziraphale’s anguish, and because it was a familiar one.

Aziraphale turned towards him, and Crowley clenched his jaw tightly shut. If hugging were a thing they did, he would have done it now. He considered  _making_  it a thing they did, because the angel’s look made his heart clench like a fist.

Instead of a hug, he offered careful words: “Angel, I think we both know that change is inevitable.”

“But why doesn’t it get easier?”

“It’s probably a good thing that it doesn’t.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” Crowley sounded awfully pleased with himself, until realisation dawned. “Wait, no. I’m not right. I’m wrong. I don’t want to be right!”

“Then you really shouldn’t behave the way you do half of the time,” Aziraphale pointedly muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Aziraphale smiled to himself, feeling his spirits rise a little. He was so easily swayed, by this demon. A demon who was so wonderfully un-demonic at times that it made him wonder… He had been pondering a question, these last hours. “Dear, have we gotten too… too human?”

“You know, I’m not sure anymore if there’s such a thing as  _too human_.”

Aziraphale thought about that. He smiled again, gingerly, and the curve of his mouth looked both in and out of place on his sad face.

Crowley stepped forward, hesitated, reached out and took the angel’s hand into his own.

“They’ll still be here, angel. It’s a bit of a showy miracle, making people forget about the existence of an entire shopfront in Soho, but I do think we can get away with it for a while.”

“Yes. You are right of course, dear.” This time, Aziraphale’s smile reached his eyes. “Thank you for your help with that one. Still, it feels…”

“Like losing something you know will never be the same even if you find it again, because the absence will always have been there?”

“Say, have you ever thought about writing a book of your own?”

Crowley grinned. Their hands were still entwined, and the angel was holding on tight. “You know what I  _have_  thought of, angel? That appointment we have with the contractor in ——. It’s a little way to the South Downs, and I’m not sure how many more hours I can convince him that being a ‘little late’ is no big deal.”

“Well, then.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it go. There was fondness in his eyes as he surveyed the room once more, but there was a different kind of fondness in them when, finally, they ended their journey on Crowley’s face. “I guess this is goodbye,” he said, not taking his eyes off Crowley, and leaned in, towards him, and kissed him softly on the lips.

“Goodbye isn’t always forever, angel. Nothing is.” Crowley licked his lips. Oh, he knew the feeling of wanting something to last forever.

“Maybe some things are,” Aziraphale offered quietly, and the fist around Crowley’s heart let go, softly, as the meaning registered. The angel slowly released Crowley’s hand as he stepped forward, towards the door, and turned around with new flourish. “After you?”

They left the bookshop, and silence, absolute, settled over the room. No noise or sound reached inside; as if with the disappearing of its oldest friends the shop truly had fallen out of place and time. (It had.)

Had you walked past, the little bookshop sign might have registered in your mind, for just a second, before it would slip away like the faint memory of a dream, waiting to be remembered.


	11. distracting kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

Language is old. 

It’s as old as humanity itself; it has evolved and grown alongside the human race throughout the centuries. Writing is old, too. But it is younger than language. 

What did we write on, before we hand-wrote and, later, printed books? Before we made papyrus, and then paper? What did we write with before we made ink? How many ways did we invent to eternalize words, to make immortal our stories? (To designate our properties, to sign peace treaties, to send letters.)

Why do we write? 

Language has many purposes. It can be poetic, can reach deep into your soul and tug at your heartstrings and make you feel things you never knew you needed to feel. It can change you.

Language can be practical: it can be a means to an end. 

“Angel. Angel, angel, an-ge-e-el. Aziraphale.” Whining, Crowley moved around Aziraphale like a rabid swarm of mosquitoes. “Angel!!”

“For  _God’s_ sake, Crowley!” Aziraphale’s fist curled tightly around his fountain pen, but he dared not move any more for fear of smudging ink across the pages in front of him. “Would you let me work?”

“What are you doing, anyways?” Crowley peered over his shoulder. His eyes scanned the text: letters that would be indecipherable to most, save for a handful of scholars. And one angel and one demon.

“I am  _editing_.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean,  _why_? I am making historical sources accessible to new generations by transcribing this ancient handwritten manuscript! Why, in a wider sense, I am providing a key to understanding culture!”

“So… What’s it about?” He knew very well what it was about. 

“…it’s a recipe.”

“A recipe, huh.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked guilty.

“For culture, and humanity? Not at all for your own personal gain, is it?”

“No, it is not.” The blatant lie should have burned his tongue, Crowley thought. He liked when the angel did that. Be  _un_ -angelic. A grin spread across his face, and he stepped closer. 

Carefully, Aziraphale put down his pen. Turned his head away.

“Oh come on, angel. Don’t be all huffy about it.” Crowley bent down, arching his long back. His words, when he spoke them next, slid neatly into Aziraphale’s ear. “I’ll cook it for you?”

Aziraphale turned his head; their noses brushed.

Crowley kissed him with a smirk, one that grew when the angel reciprocated. His hands were gripping the edge of the table, as if to stop himself from touching Crowley. Staying focused on the task, when the rest of him was not. 

When Crowley finally released him, Aziraphale looked flustered. Cleared his throat. “Now let me get back to my work,  _please?_ ”

“Fine.”

Having received what he had desired, the demon was appeased. With a grin, he stepped back and lifted his hands: a peace offering. “I have many things to do, too, anyways.”

“I’m sure.” Aziraphale was already absorbed back into his work, and Crowley smiled to himself as he looked at his bent head, and then left him to it. 

By the time Aziraphale was done, Crowley had left. But the demon had left a little note. (Written in letters that a schooled eye might have identified as  _carolingian minuscule_.)

Why do we write? To describe what it is to be human. To attempt to understand.

_Angel, I’m out buying the ingredients. You can thank me later. You know, **really** thank me ;) –A.J. Crowley_

Or as a means to an end


	12. trying not to kiss them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 10. staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

Kissing seems to us as human as compassion, kindness, clothes. But just like fabric, it is something that—while having been around a very long time, with a number of possible origins—has been invented. Has been a long time in the making.

Kissing, in Europe, was largely unheard of until the Ancient Greeks decided to invade India and brought back a number of new customs. In India, it might date back much longer. Maybe some cultures rose and fell without ever touching lips.

Aziraphale could have told you a lot about the practice of kissing.

But the point is this: humans don’t have to kiss. Angels, certainly not either.

Then why, why, could he not stop staring at his lips?

When did  _that_  happen?

“Angel?”

“Oh, yes. As I was saying, the ancient Sumerians certainly did know how to—certainly, the wheel was a great invention, and the cuneiform and all that—but checkers! They did humanity a great service. What a game.”

Crowley’s forehead was a valley of wrinkles. His nose was scrunched. But Aziraphale didn’t much notice that, because his eyes were trained—

_Oh, bugger_.

“I prefer Mario Kart.”

“What kind of vehicle is that? Crowley, I was talking about games!”

Aziraphale tore his eyes away and upwards, hoping he had not given himself away, and grateful for Crowley’s demonic intervention, though he did not get it at all.

Obviously. And to Crowley’s infinite amusement.

His lips curled, until they formed a smile that turned grin and then his tongue touched his teeth and he looked awfully amused and even more he looked happy and at ease and Aziraphale, Aziraphale could feel himself lean closer, closer towards those lips, and he swallowed and shivered and—froze. Oh, they were close.

When did that happen?

His intention was very clear, unmistakeably clear, and there was no way around it. No way out.

Any thoughts of vehicles and games dropped straight out of both their minds.

“Angel?” The word was as thin as silk (a fabric, while being as old as the Sumerian culture, first produced in China).

(Had the Sumerians kissed? Had the Chinese? Aziraphale could have told you that, too, had he not been very preoccupied.)

A fact is this: In Sumerian myth, the god Enki, who brought apples (and cucumbers, and grapes) and is let into the garden by Uttu, kisses Uttu.

Another fact: In this world, which is no myth at all, the fallen angel Crowley, who brought apples into a garden a long time ago, finally kisses Aziraphale.

Is kissed by him.

When did that happen?

Regardless—it has been a long time in the making.


	13. scrunched-up face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [inspired by a wonderful art by @cliopadra on tumblr, except this here is set in the present]  
> They're at a dress-up party, that's the important bit.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Aziraphale had said. 

“You never do,” Crowley had answered.

“Whatever should I  _wear_?”

“Surprise me.” 

And surprise him he did.

;-;-;-;-;-;-;-;

The place was packed. Crowley shook hands and exchanged nods and felt very much good in his costume, exactly for the fact that he was  _not_. A demon, dressing up as an angel. Was there greater sacrilege? He grinned.

Better yet: a demon dressing up as the human idea of an angel, so very much not up-to-date with angelic fashion–which was ironic, since the angels also failed at keeping up with human trends. Both sides losers, in the end. In his white robes and flashing-LED-plastic-halo, the devilish grin on Crowley’s face looked slightly misplaced. Gabriel would hate this, which was exactly why he loved it a whole damn lot. He knew which side had truly won, and it was his*.

*His, of course, not extending far beyond  _himself_ –one angel excluded. 

Thinking of–where was Aziraphale?

He looked around, impatient. He had still not spotted his angel, poor Crowley, so very impatient to see the scandalized look on Aziraphale’s face as soon as he’d lay eyes on his costume. 

So very unprepared was Crowley for the possibility that Aziraphale might be the one to create the greater scandal that he did suddenly not know what to do with himself when he did, at last, find the angel.

Worst thing was: he had not even realized it was him. He’d been drawn to the costume, because–well, because he was just enough of a narcissist to be a demon. People dressing up as snakes immediately fell into his favour, and would receive a slightly less demonic misfortune than the other guests. (There was one fool who had accidentally dared to dress up as an angel also–he’d received a whole plate of canapées. Into his face. Followed by a tray of glasses filled to the brim with red wine. He’d left hurriedly, looking like an angel slain, and Crowley had watched pleasedly.)

Only one person he had expected to possibly show up as another angel (because  _his_  angel tended to be predictable like that), and the reality was so far from it that Crowley would have felt betrayed, had he not felt so very… very… flattered. Dumbstruck. (And in love.)

“Aziraphale?” His voice was a pitch higher than he would have liked, a little thinner, a little weaker. The snake, who was Aziraphale, beamed at the sound of his voice, turned his head, and gasped.

Here it was, the effect Crowley had anticipated the whole evening, and now it fell flat despite its glory. His mind was elsewhere, and it repeated like a broken record: Aziraphale. A snake.

_Aziraphale, a snake. Azirapha–_

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphaele scolded, and it took Crowley a second to register that he was referring to his angel costume, and then it took Aziraphale another second to get the irony of it all, too. “Oh. Well, in this case, I assume, I would be the wily serpent.”

He smiled, embarrassed, and Crowley wanted to be hit by a tray of canapées then and there, anything, anything to kill in him the urge to snog the angel senseless. 

“Nice costume,” he breathed, and watched the angel snatch a canapée off a tray that was indeed passing by dangerously close to their heads. Such a tiny miracle, for the waiter to slip… Almost. He considered it. 

Because Aziraphale was giving him The Eye: the sort of sweeping toe-to-head look that made it very clear he was judging Crowley’s life choices. The look that typically made the demon’s skin bristle with indignation, as if the angel had any authority to judge his style, looking the way he did–no matter how many times he called it  _standards_. (Today, as an exception to the golden rule, Crowley guessed he deserved it.)

“Can’t return the compliment,” Aziraphale indeed quipped a heartbeat later, and Crowley’s grin was full of pain, and would have given little children trouble sleeping. 

“Gee, thanks. Have you considered that your costume might actually really underline your personality? Love it.”

Aziraphale’s sly expression fell. “Crowley! No need to be so, so… not nice!”   

“Nevermind, I take it all back.” Oh, he was having fun. Aziraphale looked like a child that was being sent to bed against their will. Except, he also looked like a snake. And, wait, was that–

“Is that an apple?!” Crowley gaped, and wheezed. 

It was true: The snake winding around Aziraphale was indeed opening its jaw to enclose around a red fruit, just over the angel’s shoulder. This was it; this took the proverbial apple cake. 

“Why,” Crowley spluttered, “Why did you do it?”

Aziraphale cocked his head, indulging another canapée. (They kept coming, now simply materializing in his hand, him not even bothering to have the waiter circle him any longer.) 

“The costume?”

Crowley assented. 

“Well… It wasn’t all bad, was it?” Aziraphale scrunched up his nose, trying to take the weight off his concession, and the emotions to go with it. “The snake. I mean. Knowledge isn’t bad… is it.”

Crowley looked at the angel, face slipping. Would he have ever dared to say things like this, with such levity, as he did now? With the same flabbergasted expression still stuck on his face, Crowley slowly leaned forward, and touched his lips to the angel’s forehead, lightly. When he pulled back Aziraphale gave him a small, sly smile, which made something in Crowley evaporate in the same way a horseshoe might evaporate a hellhound’s fury. The beast inside him, barely conscious anymore, closed its eyes. It wasn’t much of a beast to begin with, a fact he thought he was maybe finally able to (sometimes, just a little bit) acknowledge–just as Aziraphale was finally allowing himself to be loved by a demon, and to love him back freely. 

Crowley’s smile, when it came, was warm.

And then triumphant.

“Now you’re asking the right questions, angel.”


	14. soft and with feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: hands on the other person’s back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that make them break the kiss with a gasp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Inspired by an absolutely stunning art piece by @selene-yoshi-chan that i have not been able to get out of my head, so this is an attempt to free myself (who am i joking we all know we’ll never be free)]

It happened on a Wednesday afternoon, and where else would it have happened if not in the bookshop? Their safe haven. Their home, though they’d never admit it.

Sure, they (Crowley) had an elaborate code system of secret meet-up places, but he’d have been lying if he told you they were either truly safe or secret. No, there was nowhere he felt as at ease as in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop, with the shutters down.

Which was where they were now, except something had changed.

The sofa was empty, two wine glasses, empty still, were abandoned on the table, the wine beside them likewise untouched.

What was not untouched, was—well, it was Aziraphale.

It was only just his hand, for now, which rested between Crowley’s, and yet he felt the touch like flames, his cheeks reddening as he listened to the words spill from the demon’s lips like a barrel wrenched open. Crowley bent his head, grip tightening, and Aziraphale registered the pressure on his limp hand. The words, though spoken with such barely contained haste, trickled into his head slowly.

_I love you. I’m sorry._

There were other words, many, but those were the ones that stuck. And repeated, in his head, until they filled it whole.

“Say something. Angel?” Crowley’s voice almost broke on the last syllable, and Aziraphale blinked, fighting against his stupor. Crowley’s eyes, when he met them, were filled with sorrow and something waiting to turn into panic.

He wasn’t expecting something good, Aziraphale realised. He was just expecting  _something_. It hit him harder, this look, because it was not filtered by Crowley’s sunglasses.

He was so vulnerable, like this. For him.

Everything inside Aziraphale ached, and he wanted so badly to turn it into a good ache.  _Oh, I love you too_ , he wanted to say,  _and I’m not sorry._

What was stopping him?

He wasn’t sure anymore. He’d gotten so used to fighting it, to suppressing it, to thinking it  _impossible_.

But here Crowley was, in front of him, so much braver than himself. Baring his feelings, his heart, and offering it up for a weighing he was sure he would not pass.

Not because he thought Aziraphale indifferent, the angel was sure (he had to know how much he loved him, too, right,  _right_?), but because he knew him to be bound by duty, belief, loyalty. Divine shackles, if you will.

But just for one moment, Aziraphale let himself be unbound.

Life returned to his hand, and he lifted Crowley’s, still holding on, with it. He looked at their hands, intertwined, and then he looked at Crowley’s lips. And didn’t hide the longing in his eyes.

That was enough for Crowley to crumble; Crowley who was not shackled by anything save his own heart.

Gently, carefully, slowly, he moved closer. Aziraphale watched his eyes flutter shut, and then his own world turned dark. (But bright, oh so bright behind his eyelids.)

When their lips touched, it was with reverence.

It was the softest of kisses, a little unsure, like a question. Aziraphale leaned in, and provided the answer. There were no words between them now, because they did not dare speak. Words meant acknowledging, and this was not a moment for acknowledgement: it was a moment for kissing.

And feeling wonderful for it.

After the moment, sooner or later but inexorably, there would come the consequences. The aftermath, the having-to-talk-about-it. But not now.

Now Crowley’s arms snaked around Aziraphale and pulled tight, never wanting to let go. Now his hands were on Aziraphale’s back, holding on for dear life.

And Aziraphale parted his lips, and exhaled softly, and let his fingers feel the fabric of Crowley’s shirt, let himself feel the demon’s body and warmth and  _everything_.

They were so close, so tangled into each other, as if they were trying to become one.

Their clothes pushed and shifted as they moved, and then there was an opening for Crowley’s hand, stumbled upon by accident, and when his fingertips touched bare skin they both gasped.

And locked eyes.

There was so much need in both of them that they averted them hastily. Only to gingerly, almost shyly, bring them back together.

“Wait,” Crowley breathed. “Angel, I don’t want to… For you…Would it…” He stumbled over his words, his question. But it came down to this, and he did find the strength to ask it: “Would this be a sin?” 

Aziraphale swallowed, looking up into the hesitant demon’s eyes. “A good one.”

And the moment he said it, he knew it to be true. If there was such a thing as a good sin, this was it. And if there wasn’t—well, he’d be damned.

The ghost of a smile haunted Crowley’s face before he softly, very softly resumed his trail of kisses along the angel’s jawline. His hand settled on his belly, moving along the crumpled shirt until his fingertips touched soft, warm skin, and started drawing circles.

The angel, sighing, closed his eyes.

He had learned many things, throughout his millennia on earth. But above all, Aziraphale thought as Crowley’s lips reached his neck and he trembled, he had learned that not every temptation needed to be withstood.


	15. howl's moving castle au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Howl's Moving Castle except Aziraphale is Sophie and Crowley is Howl.

He hadn’t really minded it, being cursed. After all, what had changed, really? He’d been much the same, before, save a few wrinkles. Nobody took much notice of him anyways, and that was how he liked it. Making hats, in the quiet of his study, in his workshop, tracing his ever-same steps between the two places, thinking of hats. That was what he did, and he did it well. 

Give him a book a day to add to that, and he was fine. 

So Aziraphale continues as he has before the curse, and nobody pays it much notice.

–;–

Rumours spread and precede him, and arrive before he does. Only because he lets them, of course, and because he likes it. A. C. Pendragon, the great wizard. Crowley, who sold his heart to a snake, but that was a rumour he kept well under lock and behind closed doors, for reason of it being true. 

But when he arrives, to the city of Londary, it is in his fashion: he slithers unknown amongst the shadows, through dark alleyways and backstreets.

It is there he sees him. 

‘Sweetheart’, they say, and push him around, and he says nothing. A young man, caught in an old man’s body. Why’s that? 

Crowley (for this is what he likes to call himself, these days) disengages from the shadows, and his auburn hair burns like fire and curls like snakes, and the men shriek, and scramble. 

The wizard takes the old man’s hand into his, smiling benignly, and when he leads him away with him into the shadows, up the walls, and onto the roofs of the city, the young man gasps in delight. 

Crowley feels like a new adventure has spread its wings and is ready for take-off, much like a little fledgling, flapping its wings in the empty hollow of his chest. Ready to rise.

And as they step off the roof, Aziraphale, who looks first up, at velvet black wings, and then down, onto the town he has known all his life but has never seen like he sees it now, feels it too. 


	16. honey don't feed me (or i will come back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hozier lyric inspired ficlet

_Go up there, and stir up some trouble,_  they’d told him. 

Now here he was, curled up beside a rock, peeking at the first humans. 

“Don’t feed it,” Adam was saying to Eve, who was plucking cherries and tossing a few towards a bird that sat, waiting. “Or it will come back.”

“Why not? And if it does?”

Oh, he liked  _her_. She had a brain, and a penchant for questions.

She wouldn’t be the first to get into trouble for it.

An idea bloomed in his head; he looked towards the tree at the center of the garden, at the white flowers in bloom. Soon, the tree would bear fruit. 

And he’d listened, earlier, had heard Adam advise Eve against going near that tree. It was forbidden.

Why? They did not know; Crowley knew neither.

Maybe  _she_ would want to find out. 

When he approached her, she fed him, too. Crowley found he preferred her curious softness much to Adam’s serious rigidity, though he could not have told you why. 

And so it came that the snake whispered into the first woman’s ear, inspired her to independent action, to courage, and to knowledge.  _(What if I did the good thing, and you the bad thing, wouldn’t that be funny?)_

When it was done, and done to Crowley’s pleasure, he found he did not want to leave the garden quite yet. Despite himself, their story intrigued him, beckoning him to the wall, where he hoped to observe them a little longer, before they would vanish on the horizon and their-story would become history. 

He was not alone on the wall. 

Upon entering the garden, he had expected many things–to feel affection for an angel had not been one of them. A curiously soft angel who took his task seriously and who believed unfallibly in his God and who had disobeyed her anyways without really realizing it and when he did, it had been too late. 

An angel who, later, back in the garden, offered him fruit. 

 _Don’t feed it_ , Crowley remembered Adam’s words,  _or it will come back._  

Almost out of spite he took the offering, ignoring the feeling that roused somewhere deep inside him when their fingers brushed and the angel smiled jovially. He wouldn’t be coming back, would he? The berries tasted good, better than anything he’d never had: so this was earth’s harvest. 

His gaze moved back to the apple tree, hanging full with shiny red fruit that begged,  _Eat me, eat me_. What would they taste like?

“It’s  _forbidden_ ,” the angel gasped when Crowley returned to him with a freshly plucked apple. The second apple to be plucked, in the span of a day.

“It  _was_ forbidden, angel.” Crowley smirked as he watched uncertainty flash across the angel’s face. “Why would it be now? Hasn’t it served its purpose.”

“You cannot assume to know its purpose, demon,” the angel chided. “It’s–”

“Ineffable?”

“Well.”

“Then wouldn’t it also be ineffable if you ended up trying this fruit?”

“Well…”

Who’d known it was easier to tempt an angel than to tempt a human? Well, Crowley knew, now. This angel, at least. He seemed to be the gullible kind, though Crowley could not fault him for that. His belief was as innocent as a new born lamb’s. His hair was as white. (He’d have to be careful not to be lead to slaughter. The idea did not please Crowley; nobody else should lay hands on this angel but him. That thought, having come unbidden, did not please him either.)

Good for him, that snakes did not consider lambs their prey. 

Though, of course, they’d swallow anything that would let itself be swallowed. 

Then again… on second glance, maybe he was not quite as innocent. The angel seemed unable to hide the curiosity in his eyes; if he hadn’t known better Crolwey would have thought he  _wanted_  to be tempted, to have an excuse to try the fruit of knowledge. Was he as innocent as he wanted to be?

Either way, he took the apple out of Crowley’s outstretched hand—quickly, as if that would make it unobservable. He glanced around, once. When nothing happened, he relaxed.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale bit into the apple, watched the waxy skin give under white teeth, watched the sweet juice coat his lips. Watched how the angel closed his eyes and hummed, and how delight spread across his face.

He knew, somehow, that this was the angel’s first try of Earth, too. 

It seemed they both had acquired a taste for it. (Quite literally.)

 _Don’t feed it, or it will come back._  Would the angel come back? Would they ever see each other again, after this day? Crowley wondered. And found himself wishing it, a realization that surprised him, and that he tucked away quickly. 

If they ever did meet again, well, it would not be here, would it? 

He couldn’t return, after this. And he had a feeling, if he knew God at all, which he fancied he still did, that the garden without the humans would soon cease to be. (It had served its purpose, after all.) No, he wouldn’t come back to Eden.

But what he did not yet know: he would–always, forever–come back for him. 


	17. crowley and the bentley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little theory on why the Bentley only plays... you know what.

It had been in the early days, when the Bentley‘s consciousness was a fledgling thing, barely out of the nest built deep in its combustion machine.

If there was anyone to imprint on, it was Him.

The Bentley loved its owner, its parent, the being who had given it life and who was sustaining it. Other cars had to be maintained, had to pump gas, broke down. Not this car, oh no.  _He_  was sure to look after it.

The Bentley loved Crowley.

But, sooner or later, every child must learn that its parents are neither gods nor saints; every child must learn about disillusionment and imperfection.

It was 1975; Queen was all the rage, and naturally Crowley, drawn to anything vaguely  _ragey_  like a magnet to iron, had acquired  _A Night At The Opera_ as soon as it dropped.

There was one song that the Bentley particularly liked. And one day, with Crowley listening to The Velvet Underground and tapping the wheel—a sign that he was in a particularly good mood, the Bentley had learned—the car decided to change tracks of its own accord.

Purring gently, like a cat rubbing along their favourite calf, the supernatural energy driving the Bentley morphed the CD.  _The machine of a dream…_ the song went, and it pleased the Bentley greatly.

_I am, aren’t I? I’m your machine_. But just as the best line ( _I’m in love with my car,_ naturally) filled the compartment, just as the Bentley smoothly rounded a bend, Crowley frowned and impatiently tapped the console.

„What the— stupid player.“

Overpowered by a higher kind of power, the Bentley was forced to obey. The Velvet Underground resumed playing.

A mortal offence.

The Bentley has not known hurt before, but oh how it burned now. It turned its engine oil to clunky grease in its figurative veins.

The Bentley gave a jolt, a bump, and Crowley cursed once more.

„What’s going on with thiss car,“ he hissed.

_Disappointment_ , the Bentley wanted to blast through the speakers. But it was not direct like that. No, if it had learned anything from its owner, it was that subtle retribution was the way to go.

And so it reassembled structures deep inside the electric framework of its being, reassembled them in a knotty, tangled-earphone-way that nobody yet had managed to unknot without turning their inner calm into a smoking pyre.

The sounds of Queen resumed to play.

And they Never stopped.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this wasn’t a prompt but it reminded me of Them so much i just had to…   
> extract from: E.B. Browning // Sonnets From the Portuguese

_"In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm, /_   
_And let us hear no sound of human strife /_   
_After the click of the shutting. Life to life— /_   
_I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm, /_   
_And feel as safe as guarded by a charm"_

 

The door falls to a close with a  _click_ , a barely audible little sound that nonetheless settles profoundly in the silence that comes after it. It is not an uncomfortable silence, and yet it is a silence deeply felt, and acknowledged. 

It is the beginning of a long-established ritual. They share a familiar gaze which lasts–as always, and yet every time just a fraction of  _more, don’t look away yet, hold my gaze, let me see_ –a little too long, and the ritual follows: the getting of a bottle of wine, the settling on the couch (not too far apart, not too close, either), the drifting of their conversation into absurdity with the passing of time and the emptying of the bottle. The inebriated companionship. 

It is when the ritual ends, and there are no more clear rules to follow except the one that would terminate their togetherness, the good night, the leaving, it is then that uncertainty and freedom await and beckon, sometimes, still for that ever-wishful More. 

“Well–” Crowley says and performs a little limb dance that signals his impending getting-up (the first step of the leaving), “It’s getting late and you know me, beauty sleep and all, don’t want this skin to wither and shed–wait, humans don’t shed, right, right.”

He mumbles on, words like a little stream that Aziraphale could forever sit by, legs dangling comfortably in cool-winding water around his ankles, and through this nice feeling of peace the angel indeed realizes he does not want to lift his feet yet, does not want Crowley to lift his feet either, and so his hand settles, before he can think better of it, on Crowley’s thigh, just short of the knee. 

The limb-wriggle stops, and the ritual is slightly altered and thrown off-course. 

And a ritual once thrown off-course can take on any new form, can break out-dated constraints and become something entirely new. 

This is new. It is also good. 

Aziraphale clears his throat (they are both looking at his hand on Crowley’s knee) but makes no motion to pull away. He lifts his gaze, and smiles faintly as he opens his mouth to speak, “Your skin won’t ever wither, dear.”

He says nothing else, though if he were braver he might have added something like  _and even if it did, you are forever beautiful to me, no matter the state of your skin or body or soul_. Crowley makes an expression, half-agonized and half-hopeful, that makes Aziraphale think that maybe he can hear the unspoken words anyways. 

“So… one last drink?”

“That does sound like a jolly good idea.”

A little unsure, Crowley reaches out and pours them another glass, with wine that materializes in the empty bottle. It tastes a little sweeter, now.

“You know, you might as well–I mean, if you don’t want to sober up, to drive and all, it seems such a hassle–you can have the couch? If you want?”  _You can have my whole heart, too._

A heartbeat passes before Crowley slowly, casually, nods. “Sure. Couch sounds fine.” 

They sip their wine, trying not to exult too visibly. Aziraphale, setting the glass back on the table and rolling his shoulders in a manner that suggests he is trying to pretend the movement to be small and unnoticeable while making sure that Crowley certainly  _does_ notice it–as if he didn’t always notice every movement of his, anyways–grimaces slightly, and mumbles under his breath, “Bugger.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Ah, I must have read too long today, always sitting in the same position. My neck…” He trailed off, shrugging slightly, as if it was not worth mentioning.

_My skin does not wither_ , Crowley almost says,  _so your shoulder surely does not either_ , but he stops himself.  _You could just miracle it away_ , he could say. He does not say that either. He is processing.

Aziraphale looks anywhere but him, and Crowley is reminded, faintly, of the last time he had this air of unexpectant-expectancy around him, not too long ago, on an old church compound, with a paint-blue stain on his jacket. 

“I could, er.” Gingerly he reaches out an arm, an offering, and already Aziraphale is slightly turning away, offering his neck with a devout bow of the head.

“Oh, that would be quite lovely, if you could…”

Crowley’s hands settle on his neck, first carefully and then with more assurance, to press and knead the skin. The silence is heavy between them, now, teetering between white-hot-comfortable and turbocharged. 

When his slender hands pull away, it is Crowley who clears his throat. But the sound dies without an answer, as Aziraphale, following the retracting hands, leans back into the space between them, and instinctively Crowley moves just that little bit forward, until they touch, shoulders to chest, and it feels the way a feather lands softly on the ground.

Soft, but final. 

They are treading on unchartered ground, and they are settling comfortably into their new reality, feeling safe and warm. _Let’s stay here a little longer, like this, life to life,_  they both want to say. They don’t; but they stay anyways.


	19. hon hon french crepe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt:  
> ❝ That was said so horribly wrong but you sounded very cute while trying. A for effort. ❞ (Crowley to an extremely rusty Aziraphale who is trying to speak a language he is really out of practice with? xD)

“Moi veux …crèpe?” Aziraphale pointed animatedly at the hot black stone plate. The vendor raised a french brow, very frenchly. The single movement in an otherwise still face expressed disdain enough to last a life time.

Aziraphale was oblivious to the contempt as a matter of course (contempt he had managed to produce even without his posh clothes; there was just something in his manners—and his absolute inability to form even one correct French sentence…), but Crowley made a mental note to let one or two flies suddenly drop dead into the bowl of batter, after they’d left.

“Une crêpe avec quoi, monsieur?”

“Excuse me?”

The poor vendor turned his offended nose at the unpleasant sound of English syllables, his perfect little moustache quivering in offence, and even Aziraphale sensed he was treading on crêpe-thin ground. Desperate, he sought Crowley’s gaze in a familiar silent cry for help.

To Crowley’s infinite amusement, this situation produced far more unease in the Angel than the threat of discorporation he had escaped just minutes ago.

Sliding easily into the role of Saviour once more, Crowley turned to the vendor and, in impeccable French, ordered a crêpe. He didn’t ask what filling Aziraphale wanted, because while Crowley knew little about The Delight of Crêpe, he thought himself enough of a Connoisseur of Aziraphale to hit a sweet flavour jackpot, with a little praise heaped on top.

(And of course, he was right.)

“Ma cœur, Crowley, le crepe es delicieux! Comme la nuée! Molto bon,” he all but chirped, wiping a little cream off the tip of his nose.

“That was all manners of wrong, angel,” Crowley informed him amusedly, trying to miss the fact that he had just been called  _my heart_. “But you sounded very cute while trying, throughout.”

Despite having added those last words thoughtlessly, and with an air of benevolence, Crowley almost choked on his non-existent crêpe when Aziraphale suddenly faltered and, almost imperceptibly but definitely, blushed. He looked very interestedly at his crêpe, licked his lips, and cleared his throat.

“Why, thank you, Crowley,” he said in a way that was far too genuine for a Crowley to handle. And so, when Aziraphale held out the crêpe to him, he took it in a daze, and bit into it just to do  _something_.

It was, in fact, delicious. Crowley reconsidered his fly trap, if only for Aziraphale’s sake. He’d want to go back for seconds, surely.

And the vendor would get to listen to more of his abysmal french—which counted as more hellish punishment than Crowley himself could  _ever_  possibly dish out.


End file.
